


Smut Sunday: Multitasking

by Kuronrko98



Series: Lady and the Tramp [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/F, recreational magic use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 19:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14479125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuronrko98/pseuds/Kuronrko98
Summary: A demon can get bored when she's stuck in a hunter's safehouse for a week.





	Smut Sunday: Multitasking

**Author's Note:**

> This is. My first time trying to write smut in any kind of serious way. This is also the first time I've finished a LATT snippet since like 2015.

We’ve been at Bobby Singer’s rat’s nest of a house for nearly a week.

The demon traps littered around the house got old in a few hours. Even Mickey’s complaining now, after having to rescue me in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep. According to Singer, he doesn’t remember where all of them are.

It’s good to know that his soul flares yellow when he lies.

The holy water, I could deal with, if he hadn’t laced every bottle of alcohol in the building with it. A bottle of Yamazaki sitting on a cluttered shelf and gathering dust very nearly brought me to tears when I first saw it.

All of the glares, thinly-veiled and outright threats, and obvious hints that I’m not welcome are starting to make me jumpy. When only ¼ hunters trust you, it’s hard to put any faith in the other three.

But all of that’s fine.

Mickey expressed early on that she feels safe here. The inconveniences of being a demon in a hunter’s house are expected and tolerable if she can get the rest she needs here. I don’t _need_ to sleep, so a few more days of lying awake at night won’t hurt me. Especially not when being awake offers rewards of its own in the early mornings.

Dinners are a production. At first, Singer was skeptical that I would be interested in eating at all. Then, he pitched a fit that it’s a waste of food to prepare enough for someone that doesn’t need it. He only backed down when Mickey walked in on the discussion and put an end to it.

But tonight’s our sixth night here. Even Singer has started to drop the constant hostility when the Winchesters aren’t around. The sharp edge to the words directed at me are starting to wear away, giving way to curiosity and a distinctly _hunter_ persistence. Without the demon circle, salted rope, and holy water in the face, it’s almost a pleasant conversation.

“You know, the boys still haven’t exactly told me your deal.”

“They don’t know most of it,” I answer mildly, though I keep my eyes on Mickey. Her soul’s taking on that soft burgundy I’ve gotten used to in the short time I’ve been traveling with the hunters.

Now, we’re just going to have to do something about that.

“Gimme a rundown. I'm sure you’ve got one hell of a story,” he presses, and I turn my gaze on him.

“Do you want to 2,000 year version, or the 20 year version?” I ask. In the meantime, I pinpoint my magic and brush a flicker of it over Mickey’s cheek.

The sound of her glass hitting the table harder than necessary diverts Singer’s attention and gives me an excuse to look back at her with a barely suppressed grin. White swirls of surprise twine with the burgundy and a single thread of anticipated indigo.

I wait, breathe held, to see if she’s on board. This is a game we’ve played many times before, though never in public.

She nods, a barely-there gesture that swells my heart, and I turn back to face Singer in much better spirits.

For a second, I think it might have distracted him enough to drop that line of questioning, but while I run a feathery touch along Mickey’s jawline he indicates he wants the short version of ‘my story.’ I can practically _feel_ the warmth of her skin on my fingers tapping gently on the wooden surface of the table.

“It really isn’t a very good one,” I warn him as I press a soft kiss to the dip in Mickey’s collarbone. “Not worth the time it takes to tell it.”

“That’s usually what folks say when they don’t _want_ to tell me something,” he says with raised brows.

I shift in my chair, an idle movement, when I flatten the magic to slide under Mickey’s shirt without giving too much away. Triumph sparks in the back of my head when I hear a soft gasp from her.

“It’s just _boring_.” I shrug, turning my head in a standoffish motion that allows me to make sure Mickey’s doing okay. If her soul is any indication, she is. Nothing but a slight flush and white knuckles gripping her spoon giving any indication that a demon’s magic is creeping slowly closer to—

My finger twitches, putting a sharper twist when the slow caress pauses over a nipple.

Her fork scratches against her plate, but she doesn’t say anything when her green eyes flash up to meet mine.

“Out with it,” Singer growls. I look back to find a good natured smile rather than a scowl. I sigh, but finally relent on both fronts. Before I answer his question, I change course to run two paths of energy trailing down Mickey’s sides. I stop there, waiting to see if she’ll stop me.

“Fine. You asked for it.”

With no kick under the table or muttered safe word, I reunite the two paths to stroke the junction of her thighs through her jeans. I feel her shift in her seat, hear a breath behind me, but no signal to stop.

“In my heyday, I kicked it with the higher ups in Hell. This is _after_ the Knights vanished, but that’s a completely different story.”

Without letting up, I snake another mass of warm magic under her waistband. I trail slowly down, dotting kisses in its wake.

“You know Crowley?” Singer nods. “I used to have his job, which is much less gratifying than he makes it out to be.”

“You used to _have his job?_ ” he asks, startled. “As in the ‘Ruler of Hell’ job?”

I shrug, but I can’t help a grin when I slip between Mickey’s labia and carefully pool the energy around her clitoris. I don’t wait, this time, before swirling a steady rhythm in time with the sliding scale I’ve pushed through her jeans by now.

“It sucked. Not as badly as being sealed in a human body, but it wasn’t a good set up.”

I know the game is over the instant the chair behind me scrapes against the floor. Singer shifts his gaze to Mickey, and I do the same, letting the magical energy dissipate.

Her flush nearly drowns out her freckles, set jaw and tense shoulders leading down to clenched fists. I think I might have overstepped my bounds until I look deeper to see swirling burgundy and her sky-blue impatience swooping through her scarred soul to paint a fairly carnal picture.

“Mick? What’s wrong?”

I immediately rise from my own seat without looking away from Mickey, catching her hand in mine.

“Story time’s over, Bobby,” she mutters, already tugging me toward the door.

Yeah, I’d say Mickey being comfortable has a good number of perks.


End file.
